


Warm & Happy & Safe

by Witcher_Trash_Party



Series: Witcher Trash Party [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Warming, Coercion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, Improper Use of Axii (The Witcher), M/M, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, at best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27102250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witcher_Trash_Party/pseuds/Witcher_Trash_Party
Summary: Jaskiercravesto have something inside, filling the hollow, hollow gap between his tongue and his palate, and he has often caught himself with things in his mouth, put there just for the sake of them being in his mouth. He’s not sure when this new craving started - it feels like it’s always been there, buried deep beneath. The want - theneed- to put something in his mouth, and keep it nice and warm.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Trash Party [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990582
Comments: 11
Kudos: 443





	Warm & Happy & Safe

**Author's Note:**

> _"[...] My prompt is Jaskier being made to love cockwarming for Geralt. Where ever, whenever, Geralt gets him to crave it. Just to be useful to Geralt. Sometimes with his arse and sometimes with his mouth, nothing gets him off more than knowing Geralt is warm and happy because of him"_

Sometimes, after they’ve made camp, Jaskier spaces out, watching the flames of their campfire flicker, entranced by their intricate dance.

This time, when he blinks back to the present, he’s got his fingers in his mouth. He’s not suckling them, or gnawing on his fingernails - they just rest there, his pointer and middle finger, a comfortable weight on his tongue. It’s not surprising - lately, he’s been feeling… empty, in a weird way. He _craves_ to have something inside, filling the hollow, hollow gap between his tongue and his palate, and he has often caught himself with things in his mouth, put there just for the sake of them being in his mouth.

He’s not sure when this new craving started - it feels like it’s always been there, buried deep beneath. The want - the _need_ \- to put something in his mouth, and keep it nice and warm.

Usually, it’s his fingers - the warmth of living flesh and the taste of skin are the most comfortable on his tongue - but he’s caught himself with a pencil or a spoon several times. Once, it was a carrot that he’d taken out of his pack to snack on as he walked behind Geralt, and he only realized he was still holding it in his mouth, mostly untouched, when they arrived in town at least two hours later.

Across the fire, he notices Geralt watching him, and there’s warm amusement in his eyes. “What are you doing, Jaskier?” he asks.

Jaskier shrugs, pulls his fingers out of his mouth, wipes the spit on his trousers and instead reaches for his lute.

The next day, he wakes up gently sucking his thumb.

They’re at an inn. The room is decent - there’s only one bed, but Geralt and Jaskier are used to sharing. Geralt is replenishing his potion stash, cutting and crushing herbs, brewing, mixing, pouring the results into convenient little glass vials. Jaskier has his composition book open on his lap and is working on a poem - or rather, trying to work.

No words he comes up with seem right, and he’s starting to get annoyed. He just can’t seem to focus tonight. There’s an errant thought itching at the back of his mind, distracting him, but it’s as urgent as it is unclear.

His free hand comes up to scratch at his chin - and after, without thinking, Jaskier just slips his fingers into his mouth.

The familiar weight on his tongue helps, somewhat, but it still doesn’t feel… _right_. There’s something missing - some absolutely fundamental part of it is just horribly, terribly wrong. He lets out a frustrated whine, partially muffled by his fingers.

That catches Geralt’s attention - he drops the pestle and the mortar and turns to face Jaskier, an almost fond half smile tugging at his lips.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” he asks, in that wonderfully gravelly voice of his.

It sends a pleasant shiver down Jaskier’s spine. “‘s not good enough,” he mumbles around his fingers. “Doesn’t feel right.”

“Your fingers?”

Jaskier nods.

Geralt holds up one hand, and his fingers draw a symbol in the air - Jaskier is barely able to register that it must be one of those witcher signs, and that it seems weirdly familiar, before all his thoughts leave him and his head fills with cotton. He feels floaty, like when you stick your head in a bucket of water and just stay there, and the world goes on around you, but it all sounds so, so, _so_ far away. Everything is soft and blurry - except for Geralt, the only sharp and in-focus thing in the whole world.

“Of course they don’t feel right,” Geralt is saying, and every word he says settles in Jaskier’s head like a stone. “The only thing that would feel right in your mouth is my cock.”

Gods, it _would_. The moment Geralt says it, Jaskier knows it for a fact, and he would feel foolish for not realizing it before, if he felt anything else besides that yawning, aching emptiness in his mouth - the emptiness that can be only ever filled with Geralt’s glorious, magnificent cock.

“Yeah,” Jaskier mumbles. In some far away part of himself, he knows he’s drooling around the fingers still stuffed in his mouth. He pulls them out, they’re a worthless imitation anyways. “Only your cock would be good enough.”

“Come here.” Geralt motions to the space between his legs, under the table he’s been working at the whole evening.

Jaskier is walking over before he even makes the conscious decision to do so. He kneels between Geralt’s spread thighs, nearly giddy with how close he is to Geralt’s crotch, to what he so desperately _craves_.

Geralt unlaces his trousers, pulls his mostly flaccid cock out and feeds it into Jaskier’s willing mouth.

“Just hold it there for me, okay?” he says, as if Jaskier has ever in his life wanted to do anything different than this. “Keep me nice and warm.”

Jaskier lays his head on one of Geralt’s thighs and closes his eyes, and simply enjoys the feeling of _fullness_ , of _rightness_ , as Geralt’s soft cock sits salty and heavy on his tongue - there’s nothing as satisfying as this, not music, not wine, not sex - Jaskier’s purpose in life is to kneel between Geralt’s spread legs and keep his cock nice and warm in his mouth - there’s nowhere he’d rather be, nothing he’d rather be doing. This is his place in the world, and it feels fucking amazing.

Geralt strokes his hair, muttering something about Jaskier _“finally getting with the program,”_ as Jaskier drifts in his floaty, head-under-water state, but it doesn’t sound too important, so he doesn’t bother trying to understand, his head filled with the feeling of Geralt in his mouth.

Geralt turns his attention back to his potions.

Now that Jaskier has, finally, with Geralt’s great help, figured out his new craving, he doesn’t even bother with trying to imitate the real thing with fingers or spoons or pens. He just waits, patiently, until Geralt’s fingers weave the familiar sign - he still doesn’t really know what the sign does, but he does not think about it much - and then he has Geralt’s cock in his mouth for as long as Geralt needs it. His mind goes soft and everything is fuzzy around the edges when he’s kneeling between Geralt’s legs and nothing else matters. He’s just happy to be of service - happy to be useful - happy to keep Geralt’s dick warm and safe and wet.

Jaskier has been uncomfortable his whole set, so he’s happy it’s over. Muscles deep in his core don’t sit right, and he _craves_ , he craves so, _so_ desperately, but he’s not sure what he hungers for this time, his mouth not feeling empty in what feels like forever.

Actually, he might have been uncomfortable ever since they arrived at the inn - Geralt made The Sign in their shared room and said _something_ , but Jaskier doesn’t remember what, and he _thinks_ the uncomfortable feeling might have started then, but the memory gets fuzzier the more he thinks about it, the details keep slipping away from him, like can't quite grasp the memory - so he does not think about it.

They have retired to their room for the night, and Jaskier is in the middle of undressing for bed when Geralt breaks the silence.

"Does your hole feel empty, Jaskier?" he asks.

"What?"

"Your arse," Geralt explains, voice even, and his fingers draw _The Sign_ in the air. "Doesn't your tight little asshole just feel _so_ empty?"

 _Fuck_ , it _does_. That's what had been distracting him his whole fucking set - the absolute agonizing hollowness, the aching absence of _something_ in his ass -

"So empty," Jaskier repeats after Geralt, floating again.

"Do you know what would make it better?"

 _Anything_ would take the edge off, Jaskier knows - but he knows just as well what would solve the problem completely. It's the only clear thought in his head. He hums in agreement. "Your perfect cock," he answers simply.

"That's right." Geralt smiles. "My cock would fill your greedy hole so well."

" _Yesssss_ ," Jaskier agrees, "so well."

“Ask for it, then.”

Jaskier keens, the sound pure need. “ _Please_ , let me keep your cock warm in my ass - stuff me full - Geralt, I need it _so much_ \- “

“On the bed, on all fours,” Geralt orders.

Jaskier scrambles to obey, settling on the bed, presenting his ass without any of the teasing showmanship or desperate dramatics and he would usually go for. He just - he just needs it so much, he can’t even think about playing it up - he _needs_ , and that’s it. Geralt kneels behind him, and two of his thick fingers, slick with oil, rub at Jaskier’s entrance, applying only the barest pressure.

“You are so unbelievably relaxed, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers behind him, and Jaskier feels all his muscles turn into butter as if on command. “So, so relaxed. Not a single tension in your body, letting my fingers just slip right _in_ \- “

It happens as Geralt says. Under the gentle but relentless rubbing pads of his fingers, he just _opens_ \- the tight ring of muscle loosens and allows Geralt to slide two of his fingers inside to the knuckles without much resistance. There’s practically no burn to it at all, just the foggiest memory of it - somewhere far away from this moment, Jaskier is surprised, because this has never happened before, but _right here_ and _right now_ , what he feels is pure bliss. It’s not Geralt’s dick - _not yet_ \- but it does fill that terrible emptiness inside him at least a little bit. He groans.

Geralt fucks the fingers in and out of him at a leisurely pace, brushing against Jaskier’s prostate every once in a while - and Jaskier floats, waiting patiently. His own prick is hard between his legs, and Jaskier realises this with atypically cold clinicality - he has absolutely no desire to reach down, wrap a hand around it and stroke himself, because he knows it won’t be at all satisfying: the thought of the pleasure it would bring him pales in comparison to what he’ll get to feel when he’s warming Geralt’s dick. Geralt gives him a third finger and adds more oil before he finally deems Jaskier ready for his cock.

“Lay down, on your side,” Geralt instructs him.

Jaskier does as he says. He feels Geralt lay down behind him, his chest to Jaskier’s back, and without needing to be prompted, Jaskier reaches a hand back and pulls his cheek to the side, exposing his wet hole, so that Geralt can slide home much more comfortably.

Geralt’s cock is hard and thick as it breaches him, punching a moan out of Jaskier as Geralt bottoms out in one smooth thrust - Jaskier’s body is just so relaxed, so _open_ for him, and the slide is made even easier by the oil.

 _Finally_. It feels like heaven. This is where Jaskier is meant to be, speared open on Geralt’s length. Nothing has ever felt better than Geralt’s cock perfectly filling the aching emptiness inside him, and Jaskier is sure that nothing ever will. His own prick is red and leaking, but the sensation of his arousal seems… unimportant, possibly even worthless, when he has Geralt’s cock inside himself. Nothing besides keeping Geralt warm and happy matters and certainly not Jaskier’s pathetic prick. Having Geralt inside himself is the greatest pleasure of all, and even though Jaskier knows for a fact he could cum just from it, he knows just as well that his orgasm is absolutely irrelevant.

Eventually, Geralt falls asleep, his dick softening somewhat, and Jaskier’s empty mind drifts, wrapped in warm, fuzzy feelings, focusing only on the cock in his ass - on the weight of it inside him, on how it fills him just right. On how useful he’s being to Geralt right now.

They’re in a tavern, sitting at one of those tables in the corner that Geralt prefers to sit at. Jaskier has just finished his supper - a rather mediocre bowl stew, but it was filling, at least - when the main door swings open and several local men walk in.

It’s windy and cold outside, and a gust of cool air hits Jaskier as the men keep the door open for someone else - he notices Geralt shift a little, as if to hide from the cold.

Jaskier acts on instinct - one moment, he’s sitting at the table, an empty bowl and a half-empty tankard before him; the second, he’s kneeling on the floor between Gerat’s legs under the table, frantically scrabbling at the laces of Geralt’s pants to untie them.

 _Can’t leave Geralt cold,_ is the only thought running through his mind.

He manages to get Geralt’s laces undone, and he reaches into his smallclothes, pulls out his cock and wraps his lips around it. Only then he’s able to relax. There, much better. With Jaskier’s mouth around him, Geralt will be warm and happy. He lays his head on Geralt’s thigh and looks up into those lovely golden eyes, checking if Geralt is pleased by how alert and perceptive he was and how quickly he acted.

Geralt is looking down on him in something akin to wonder - with genuine warmth in his eyes. He strokes Jaskier’s hair, his cheek, runs a finger along his jaw, feather-light loving touches.

“Didn’t know you’d take to it so well,” Geralt murmurs quietly, only for Jaskier to hear. “You are full of surprises, Jaskier. Warming my cock in the middle of the tavern, for all those people to see… Aren’t you just a marvel?”

Jaskier preens at the praise. He feels the scandalised disapproving looks of the other patrons on his back, but he doesn’t care. He’s not ashamed of this - he’s proud of it, actually. He loves being useful to Geralt, loves keeping his cock warm, and he thinks the whole world should know. And even if he didn’t want to show it off, his feelings on the matter aren’t at all important.

What’s important is keeping Geralt warm and happy and safe.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as [@witchertrashparty](https://witchertrashparty.tumblr.com/) \- I'm open to receive prompts or just chat about filth >:3


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